


The Crooked Kind

by SwingGirlAtHeart



Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, Drug Addiction, Family, Foster Care, Gen, Kidnapping, Rehabilitation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-06-07
Packaged: 2017-12-10 01:49:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwingGirlAtHeart/pseuds/SwingGirlAtHeart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been sixteen years since Carole's baby boy went missing, but when Finn suddenly turns up in a Cincinnati hospital, wounded and damaged, Carole is finally able to bring him home.</p><p>The adjustment isn't going to be easy on anyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crossed Wires

Time was going by really, really slowly.

" _Twenty-three year old male, gunshot wound to the chest!_ "

There were lights flashing overhead, whizzing by too quickly to see.

" _BP's dropping; he's losing blood too fast. We need to get him to an OR, stat._ "

His chest hurt, but only a little. It just felt like there was a heavy weight sitting on top of his ribs, making it hard to breathe.

Was there something pressed over his nose?

He reached up to try to pull it away, but his arm was suddenly shoved back down by someone else's hand.

" _Stay with me, buddy, you have to leave the oxygen mask on,_ " a muffled voice said, distorted as if they were speaking through a glass wall.

Why was it so hard to think…?

He couldn't tell how many people were around him, and their voices were starting to break up, cutting in and out like bad reception on a cell phone.

"— _put pressure on there— need 50 CCs of— crap, his lung's collapsed— SOMEONE GET A CRASH CART—_ "

His limbs felt oddly light and heavy at the same time. He was floating, but he wasn't sure where or why.

Gradually, the noise faded from his eardrums, the world going quiet overhead as he started to sink. His eyesight was blurry, the few colors and shapes he could make out smearing across each other like paint.

And then, bit by bit, everything slowly vanished.

* * *

Claire Burnham, a plainly dressed black woman who happened to be the only female social worker on staff at The Christ Hospital, stared through the glass door into the isolated room where her ten o'clock was waiting for her in his hospital bed. She studied him from afar with his file clutched in her hand. The kid wasn't aware she was watching him, and instead was looking out the window and appearing deep in thought.

"He looks pretty tall," she said to Dr. Thompson, who was standing beside her in the hall. "You're sure he's not twenty-three?"

"Pretty sure," Thompson replied, his hands in his lab coat pockets. "The license we pulled off him was fake and had him listed as Doug Wiseman, a hundred and sixty pounds, five feet seven inches tall."

Claire huffed a half-chuckle through her nose. The kid she was looking at had to be at least six-foot-two. He did look like he could easily be twenty-three, though.

"What makes you think he's a minor?"

"EMTs found him in a back alley in Over-the-Rhine," Thompson answered, scratching at the back of his balding head. "Lot of runaways involved in a lot of nasty business over there, and his blood tested positive for high doses of heroin. Not to mention the track marks on his arms." He shrugged. "That stuff ages you pretty quick."

Claire pursed her lips, glancing over the information filled in by the doctors. There were a lot of blank spaces. The kid was probably a runaway, like Thompson said, but Claire wasn't going to make any assumptions just yet.

She snapped the folder shut and placed it back into Thompson's hands (she'd found over the years that walking in with a file made nervous runaways even more uneasy and less trusting). "Okay," she said, tugging on the sleeves of her suit. "I'll go get to know him, see if I can get his real name before the withdrawal symptoms hit him."

Thompson gave her a short mock-salute with two fingers to wish her luck as she crossed the hall and pushed open the door, allowing it to slide shut behind her. The kid turned his head away from the window to frown at her, his neck and shoulders tightening almost imperceptibly. He had unevenly spiked dark hair and the hospital gown made him look more pallid than he probably was, even considering the blood loss he'd suffered. His arms and legs were long and gangly, almost too long for the bed. He needed a shave, but Claire could see from where she stood that the stubble was growing in thin patches – Thompson was right, this kid might be ridiculously tall but he hadn't quite finished puberty.

"Hi," Claire said with an easily practiced unassuming smile as she pulled a chair from the corner up a little closer to the bed. "I'm Claire." She didn't bother to try to shake his hand.

"Are you a cop?"

"No," Claire replied evenly, folding her hands in her lap. "I'm a social worker with the hospital."

His mouth twitched slightly to the side, but he didn't speak.

"Do you remember what happened to you?"

He swallowed, shrugging with one shoulder and turning to look back out the window. It was raining. He scratched absentmindedly at the edge of the bandage taped to his chest.

"The bullet missed your heart by half an inch; you're lucky to be alive."

Silence.

"Will you tell me your name?" she asked gently.

"Doug Wiseman."

"Your real name."

He rolled his eyes, sticking his forefinger in his mouth to gnaw on the nail.

Claire draped one leg over the other and waited a few moments before trying again. "Do you know why I'm here?"

Again, no response.

"I'm here because we believe you're underage, which means that the police will have to be involved," Claire explained, noticing how the tendons in the kid's arm went rigid for a moment. "Now, I can keep them back for a while, but only if you talk to me."

"If they're just going to get involved sooner or later, then what's the point?" he countered. It was the most he'd said with a single breath so far. "Why should I talk to you?"

"Because the police are sloppy," Claire answered steadily. If the kid didn't trust the police, then the best thing she could do was distance herself from them as much as possible. "The police don't give a crap once they've put you in the foster system. They won't pay attention to where you go."

The kid's eyes narrowed suspiciously at her.

"Will you tell me your name?"

"Clint Eastwood."

Claire pressed her lips together. "Listen, I don't know your history and I'm not going to pretend to know you, so here's what I do know." She intertwined her fingers, calmly leaning back in her chair. "The doctors found high doses of heroin in your blood, along with trace amounts of cocaine and evidence of alcoholism. That's a lot to be dealing with at any age, so what's going to happen before anything else is you will be placed in our rehabilitation facility and your parents will be found and notified of your whereabouts. If we can't find your parents, you will be placed in foster care after you're clean."

As she spoke, the kid's face barely changed, but she could see a brief shadow of fear slip into his eyes.

"You need to let me help you," Claire pressed. "I can make this easier. And you don't have to tell me everything, but I'd like to know your name."

His cheeks hollowed out as he clamped them between his teeth, his fingers tightening around the edge of the thin blanket covering his legs. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat.

Claire waited patiently in silence. She was good at waiting.

The kid tugged his fingers through his hair, looking away from her. "It's Finn," he admitted softly, almost too quiet to be heard. "My name is Finn."

* * *

Carole Hudson swatted a bee away from her ear as she knelt in the garden in front of her house, enjoying the early summer sunshine as she weeded the earth around her rosebushes. She had a rare day off from work, and she was determined to make the most of it. A light breeze blew through the rose branches, and she reached up to push her hair out of her eyes with the back of her forearm.

"Carole!"

She lifted her head to see her stepson leaning out of the front door, waving the cordless phone.

"Call for you!"

Carole pulled her gardening gloves off and dropped them on the ground next to her trowel, pushing herself up off her knees and walking back up to the porch.

"Thanks, honey," she said, brushing her hands off on her jeans before taking the phone from Kurt. "You making progress on your homework?"

"Yeah, I'm almost done," he nodded.

"Good, I'll help you revise your essay in a bit if you want." She smiled as Kurt went back into the house, then put the phone to her ear. "Hello?"

" _Carole Hudson?_ "

"Speaking."

" _Ms. Hudson, my name is Claire Burnham. I'm a social worker with The Christ Hospital in Cincinnati._ "

Carole frowned, fairly sure this woman had contacted the wrong Carole Hudson. "…How can I help you?"

There was a weighted pause on the other end, one that Carole didn't like the sound of, and then the woman spoke again.

" _This may come as a shock, but we have reason to believe that your son Finn is undergoing treatment here._ "

Carole's brain screeched to a halt, and she nearly dropped the phone. The pit of her stomach went ice cold.

"I-I'm sorry?"

" _We have a patient who matches the profile listed for Finn Hudson,_ " the woman elaborated. " _I'm obligated to tell you that we can't say for sure whether he's your son until a DNA test has been done, but in the case that you are his mother, I'm going to have to ask that you come to Cincinnati to meet him._ "

Carole grabbed the porch rail, not sure her legs would support her. Her heart was almost painfully beating against the inside of her ribcage, and she wasn't entirely certain she could breathe. "I – I don't understand," she stammered. "How could he fit the profile? That – that was sixteen years ago. He was a baby."

" _He's the right age, brown hair, brown eyes, and his facial structure is similar to the photograph listed with your son's file._ "

"It's been sixteen years," Carole repeated numbly, sinking onto the wooden porch bench.

" _Well, as I said, we can't be sure it's him until we do a DNA test_."

Carole shook her head, her sinuses tight and her stomach churning. "Ha-have you talked to him? Is he okay?"

" _He's expected to make a full recovery._ "

Forcing a slow breath out of her lungs, Carole tried to swallow the boulder lodged in her throat, her fingers clenching around the phone.

" _Ms. Hudson?_ " the social worker prompted after a moment.

"I'll be there as soon as I can."


	2. Pools Of Venetian Blue

The panic set in barely seconds after Carole hung up the phone. It took her five minutes to pack enough clothes to last her a week, her hands shaking the entire time like her veins were filled with electricity. It wasn't until she zipped her small suitcase shut and dropped it by the front door that it even occurred to her to call her husband.

* * *

"Ms. Hudson?"

Carole snapped awake, sitting up so quickly that she was fairly sure she pulled a muscle in her shoulder. She winced, trying to stretch out the cramps in her spine from dozing off in one of the uncomfortable hospital waiting room chairs. Claire Burnham was standing in front of her with a red portfolio clutched in the crook of her arm.

"Did you sleep here last night, Ms. Hudson?" asked Ms. Burnham.

"Um," Carole said, rubbing her left eye with the heel of her hand. "No, I – I just got in early."

Ms. Burnham frowned at her wristwatch. "It's six-thirty."

Carole sighed with a grim smile. "There's a bedbug infestation at my motel."

The social worker cringed. "Well, I brought you coffee," she said, holding out a paper cup. "It's from the cafeteria so it's probably terrible, but it's better than nothing."

Carole thanked her and took a long gulp, raking her fingers through her hair in the hopes that it might make her look a little less bedraggled (it didn't).

Ms. Burnham pressed her lips together for a moment, her fingertips tightening briefly around the red folder. "I have the results of your DNA test."

Carole sat up immediately, her heart leaping into her throat.

Ms. Burnham sat in the chair beside her. "It came back positive. There's no doubt; he's your son."

The air rushed from Carole's lungs so quickly that it made her dizzy, and she had to brace her elbows on her knees until the roaring in her ears finally died down. Her vision was blurry, and she was struggling to keep her lip from trembling. She swiped a shaking hand over her eyes. "Can— can I s-see him?"

Ms. Burnham nodded. "Soon," she said gently. "We need to go over a few things first."

"Can't it wait?" Carole asked. She didn't notice her voice crack. "Please."

"I'm sorry. It won't take long," Ms. Burnham promised.

Carole swallowed, taking a deep breath and sitting back again in the rigid plastic chair. Her back, still stiff from sleeping, popped loudly in the early morning quiet.

Ms. Burnham let the file fall open in her lap, the words too small for Carole to read herself (and either way her eyes were still swimming). "Okay," Ms. Burnham exhaled. "Finn was brought in to the hospital six days ago for a gunshot wound to the chest—"

Carole's eyes flew open, her stomach clenching. "Gunshot wound?!"

"He's going to be fine," Ms. Burnham said quickly, holding up a hand. "It'll take a little while for his organs to fully recover from the damage, but he'll be okay. The bullet missed his heart."

Carole shook her head, feeling like her brain had been knocked loose. "Why was he shot? Who shot him?"

"He hasn't been willing to tell us, but from what I can tell, drugs were most likely involved."

Suddenly, the blood seemed to rush out of Carole's head, as if it had all abruptly given in to gravity. _Not again._

"D-drugs – what kind of drugs?" she forced herself to ask.

Ms. Burnham's expression was pitying, and Carole wanted to vomit.

"The toxicology report found mostly heroin in Finn's bloodstream, along with alcohol and trace amounts of cocaine. Dr. Thompson also found evidence of at least three years' dependency."

Carole nearly dropped her coffee. Every muscle in her body felt weak and inadequate as she rested her head in the cup of her free hand. "Oh my God…" she whispered.

"He's going through some pretty severe withdrawal right now, but he's young. He'll pull through in a few days," Ms. Burnham said kindly, though her tone completely failed at being reassuring.

"C-Can I see him?" Carole pleaded, her heart thudding violently against her ribs. "I need— I need to see him."

Ms. Burnham sighed, but nodded. "We can go over the rest later." She stood up, folding the file shut again. "Come with me."

All the way up to the third floor, Carole barely breathed, unable to keep her fingers from nervously twisting around each other as she stood in the elevator. She fiddled with her wedding ring, wishing Burt was here, but at the same time… she was glad he wasn't. He would have made things too cramped.

Ms. Burnham led the way out of the elevator and down a corridor, underneath a sign announcing that they were entering the Urgent Care unit. Ms. Burnham was talking, but Carole couldn't hear anything except her own heartbeat.

* * *

Finn could briefly remember being shot. He could recall the quick flash of light from the gun in Joey's hand, and Kayley's shrill scream, and the wet pavement rushing up to meet him head-on. He remembered the dull ache in his chest and the strange calm that followed as the buildings overhead grew fuzzy. He hadn't seen Kayley or Joey leave, but they must have run off, terrified of the police sirens drawn to the sound of the gunshot still echoing in Finn's ears. He remembered dizzily trying to push himself up, knowing he had to get away from the flashing blue lights suddenly lighting up the alley, but the movement made the blood pump out of his chest even faster, and everything had gone black.

That had been _nothing_.

Whatever was happening to him now was far worse than having a bullet lodged in his left lung. He couldn't lie still, but every move he made sent painful bolts of electricity through his nerves, all the way to his fingertips and toes. There were millions of bugs crawling along his flesh underneath his skin, and everything was _hot-cold-hot-cold-hot-cold_ without relief. He couldn't breathe without his lungs burning up inside his ribs and the stitches over where he'd been shot digging into his chest like claws.

He kept trying to turn over onto his side, curl up and wrap his arms around his abdomen as his organs rotted inside him, but after he'd ripped out his IV drip and tried to leave the hospital without telling the doctors, they'd put straps on his wrists and ankles and now he could only lie on his back with his arms at his sides.

He'd be fine so long as he got a hit soon.

He just needed a little hit. A gram or two would get him back on his feet.

There was a weird clacking sound in his ears, and it took him a moment to realize his teeth were chattering. He curled and uncurled his fists, his nails digging into his palms as his blood vessels burned up. There was a cold sweat pooling in the small depression between his collarbones, he could feel it but he couldn't get rid of it.

 _God_ , his head hurt.

He really needed that hit.

"Finn." A hand gently shook him, making him jump. "Finn. You with me?"

The social worker from earlier was standing next to his bed, looking down at him with something like pity. His brain was filled with squirming insects and he couldn't quite remember her name.

"Finn, you have a visitor," she said, her fingers firmly gripping his shoulder.

He blinked, swallowing. When he opened his mouth, his tongue felt like sandpaper and was still coated with the acidic taste of vomit from last night. He didn't think he'd slept at all.

"Did you hear me?"

The woman's hand squeezed a little too tightly. His skin was about to burst open like a piñata and let the rest of him collapse and splash and ooze and fall apart across the floor. He coughed, swiping his dry tongue over his dry lips.

"K-Kayley?" he forced through his teeth, shivering too much to speak properly. He felt his ribs go rigid. Maybe Kayley had come to make sure he was okay. She'd do that for him. She wasn't like the rest of the people he knew.

The woman shook her head. "We found your mother."

A sharp stab of jagged pain cut through his stomach as a laugh jumped out of his throat. "My mom's d-de-dead," he said, his lungs shuddering with the chill.

"Her name is Carole," she countered as if he hadn't spoken. "She's waiting outside. Will you let her come in?"

He was pretty sure there was something wrong with his eyes. They wouldn't focus and one of them felt like it wasn't opening all the way.

"Finn. Will you let her come in?"

His brain was writhing inside his skull and the only thing he could scramble together enough thought to say was a hitched and stammered "W-Whatever."

A few seconds skipped ahead like a scratched record, and then there was an unfamiliar woman standing next to him. He squinted at her, tiny spots flickering and making it difficult to see clearly, but going by her clothes she wasn't a cop, a social worker, or a nurse. He didn't know what she was.

"F-Finn?"

His lungs stuttered and he coughed, a harsh and jagged hacking noise that made his eardrums rattle and his throat feel like it was bleeding. He tried again to roll onto his side, but the shackles pulled at his wrists.

"Are— Are you okay?"

That was a stupid question. Finn swallowed the bile in his mouth and blinked, trying to clear his vision enough to see who she was, but beads of sweat collecting on his forehead rolled down and ran into his eyes.

He was pretty sure he wasn't supposed to be breathing this fast.

Why did she know his name?

The muscles in his abdomen spasmed, and he flinched, his lungs heaving.

"Why is he strapped down?"

"He pulled out his IV and tried to run off," answered the social worker. "We have to keep him restrained for his own safety. It's just until the worst is over with."

"How long will that be?"

Finn couldn't hear very well. There was pressure building up in his ears as if he was rapidly losing altitude and everything sounded like he was listening from underwater, but from what he could make out, the unfamiliar woman sounded… scared.

Why should she be scared?

"Probably a week or so. Maybe two. It depends on how heavily he's been dependent in the time since his addiction started. We'll only keep the straps on until tomorrow morning, though. Walking around will make him feel better."

The woman's hand brushed over his arm, making the bugs under his skin scatter like roaches, up his shoulders and into his chest, and Finn jerked back.

"I-I'm sorry," she said softly. "I'm sorry."

Why was it _so hard_ to breathe?

Finn's hands curled into fists, his nails almost cutting into his palms as his fingers clenched, and his wrists pulled at the straps. Every pore of his skin was icy-hot, wrapping him in the agonizing sensation of boiling alive.

"Can't you give him something?" the stranger pleaded. "Make it easier?"

"The doctor says his system needs to be flushed. He's on as much pain medication as they're willing to risk."

 _It's not enough_ , Finn wanted to shout, but his jaw was clenched so tightly that he didn't think it could open, and his tongue felt swollen and numb. He just wanted this to be over. He needed to get _out_ of here.

After a short while, exhaustion seemed to finally settle into his brain, the corners of the room slowly fading dark. The last thing he heard before he sank into unconsciousness was the strange woman repeating promises he didn't understand.


End file.
